miniskirt, and a little red Marianne cap. She knew that the group’s stage gear was hopelessly louche and déclassé, but she was a pro, she was putting up with it.
The French One had brought the Canadian One in tow. The tartan-clad, toque-wearing Canadian One spoke a little French, which naturally endeared her to the French One. The Canadian One was polite, modest, and self-effacing, practically invisible in the group’s affairs. She was blond and petite, the third Canadian installment. (Two earlier Canadian Ones had angrily dropped out, once they’d realized that the act had no intention of breaking in the USA.)
“Comment allez-vous, la Française
?”
The French One put on her vinegar face. “Stop hurting my language.”
“Right, okay. Not a bad night, Canadian One, eh?”
“We need a favor,” said the French One primly.
Starlitz was properly cautious. “Just tell me what you want.”
“We want the Turkish girl to sing tonight,” announced the Canadian One.
“Gonca Utz? Wow. Why would you wanna do that?”
“I talked to Gonca tonight,” said the French One. “She can’t get a break in the music business. It’s sad. We’re famous musicians, so we want to help her.”
“Look, you know that Gonca can’t be in G-7, right? Gonca’s got no English.”
The French One nodded impatiently. “English, English, I know, I know. Who needs a Turk in G-7 anyway? Not me! But Gonca speaks French! Good French with good grammar, much better than her.”
“Hey!” scowled the Canadian One.
“Gonca sings in Turkish. She had classical Turkish voice training and can sing all the old songs. So I think, if Gonca sings here at Mr. Altimbasak’s big casino, then she could get a good chance later. A radio spot. Or a nightclub.”
“Mmmnh.” Starlitz turned. “Well, if you girls were performing tonight, I’d never allow some local amateur to go onstage, but … What do you have to say about this notion, Canadian One?”
The Canadian One was very pleased to be consulted. She drew herself up to her full height. “I concur with the French One! Minority voices deserve some time allotment! Besides, we own all the microphones anyway, so it doesn’t cost us anything.”
“I like the way you put that, Canadian One. That was very worthwhile. Now tell me something. Did you ask Mehmet Ozbey about this?”
“Mehmetcik loves the idea!” said the French One. “He said we were very generous.”
“Mr. Ozbey cares about us,” said the Canadian One, her blue eyes glistening in big powdered pools of eye shadow. “He knows all our songs by heart!”
Leggy soberly rubbed his double chins. “Well, you can’t just shove this guy’s girlfriend up onstage, and jam the mike in her hand. There’s a certain operational protocol involved here. We gotta walk carefully, because this can be kinda political.” He paused. “What’s your analysis there, French One?”
The French One leaned back on her platform heels. “My mother says that Mehmet Ozbey is a typical Westernized Third World elitist who is bound to carry out the interests of his class and gender.”
Starlitz nodded thoughtfully.
“My mother also says that Turkish cabaret music is an authentic form of proletarian expression despite its many patriarchal overtones.”
Starlitz scratched his neck. “Okay. I guess that settlesit. So can your pal Gonca rap over a backing track? We’re kinda low on Turkish cabaret musicians, at the mo’.”
The French One reached into her Liberty hat and produced a C-30 cassette. Starlitz, who was not wearing his bifocals, squinted to read the label, which was hand scrawled in green ballpoint pen. “ ‘Muserref Hanim Segah Gazel.’ Oh, brother. Did you listen to this?”
“Why should we listen to old Turkish cabaret?” shrugged the French One. “No commercial potential!”
“Backing tracks are Liam’s job!” the Canadian One insisted.
“Okay, you talked me into it,” said Starlitz. “I’ll run the tape by
The French One had brought the Canadian One in tow. The tartan-clad, toque-wearing Canadian One spoke a little French, which naturally endeared her to the French One. The Canadian One was polite, modest, and self-effacing, practically invisible in the group’s affairs. She was blond and petite, the third Canadian installment. (Two earlier Canadian Ones had angrily dropped out, once they’d realized that the act had no intention of breaking in the USA.)
“Comment allez-vous, la Française
?”
The French One put on her vinegar face. “Stop hurting my language.”
“Right, okay. Not a bad night, Canadian One, eh?”
“We need a favor,” said the French One primly.
Starlitz was properly cautious. “Just tell me what you want.”
“We want the Turkish girl to sing tonight,” announced the Canadian One.
“Gonca Utz? Wow. Why would you wanna do that?”
“I talked to Gonca tonight,” said the French One. “She can’t get a break in the music business. It’s sad. We’re famous musicians, so we want to help her.”
“Look, you know that Gonca can’t be in G-7, right? Gonca’s got no English.”
The French One nodded impatiently. “English, English, I know, I know. Who needs a Turk in G-7 anyway? Not me! But Gonca speaks French! Good French with good grammar, much better than her.”
“Hey!” scowled the Canadian One.
“Gonca sings in Turkish. She had classical Turkish voice training and can sing all the old songs. So I think, if Gonca sings here at Mr. Altimbasak’s big casino, then she could get a good chance later. A radio spot. Or a nightclub.”
“Mmmnh.” Starlitz turned. “Well, if you girls were performing tonight, I’d never allow some local amateur to go onstage, but … What do you have to say about this notion, Canadian One?”
The Canadian One was very pleased to be consulted. She drew herself up to her full height. “I concur with the French One! Minority voices deserve some time allotment! Besides, we own all the microphones anyway, so it doesn’t cost us anything.”
“I like the way you put that, Canadian One. That was very worthwhile. Now tell me something. Did you ask Mehmet Ozbey about this?”
“Mehmetcik loves the idea!” said the French One. “He said we were very generous.”
“Mr. Ozbey cares about us,” said the Canadian One, her blue eyes glistening in big powdered pools of eye shadow. “He knows all our songs by heart!”
Leggy soberly rubbed his double chins. “Well, you can’t just shove this guy’s girlfriend up onstage, and jam the mike in her hand. There’s a certain operational protocol involved here. We gotta walk carefully, because this can be kinda political.” He paused. “What’s your analysis there, French One?”
The French One leaned back on her platform heels. “My mother says that Mehmet Ozbey is a typical Westernized Third World elitist who is bound to carry out the interests of his class and gender.”
Starlitz nodded thoughtfully.
“My mother also says that Turkish cabaret music is an authentic form of proletarian expression despite its many patriarchal overtones.”
Starlitz scratched his neck. “Okay. I guess that settlesit. So can your pal Gonca rap over a backing track? We’re kinda low on Turkish cabaret musicians, at the mo’.”
The French One reached into her Liberty hat and produced a C-30 cassette. Starlitz, who was not wearing his bifocals, squinted to read the label, which was hand scrawled in green ballpoint pen. “ ‘Muserref Hanim Segah Gazel.’ Oh, brother. Did you listen to this?”
“Why should we listen to old Turkish cabaret?” shrugged the French One. “No commercial potential!”
“Backing tracks are Liam’s job!” the Canadian One insisted.
“Okay, you talked me into it,” said Starlitz. “I’ll run the tape by
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